Join me on my journey through parenthood. BYOHelmet.

We’ve already scarred my poor spawn for life by discussing his rampant flatulence, so I feel no shame in discussing it again. Because dear Andrew is determined to be the -est of everything, I shouldn’t be surprised that he is the most flatulent baby in the world.

His unending gas/frequent dirty diapers are thoroughly analyzed in the household by all present, including Mr. Aggie’s parents who are staying with us for the weekend. Behold a lovely utterance that occurred only moments ago:

Nana to Andrew, sweetly: “C’mon Andrew, get that out of your pants. Show Nana how you can poop.”

Who else but one’s Nana would encourage such unpleasantness? Who else would gladly change her fourteenth poop diaper? Those grandparents are something else, I tell you.

All members of the Aggie household are present and accounted for. Lars is incredibly peeved that she has been dethroned by a hairless, stinking creature but everyone else is enthralled. Mr. Aggie had a substantial nap and I’m about to follow suit. Sometime this evening the Milk Fairy visited and Andrew is loving that. I imagine it’s akin to expecting a lukewarm Lean Cuisine and getting Ben and Jerry’s instead.

Speaking of which, someone is inquiring about the ice cream truck. More to come later, but not tonight.

Typing a one handed blog entry at 5:30 am about how undeniably perfect your day old child is, as you sit almost straight up in bed, knees bent with said child swaddled, facing you, and laying on them, silently celebrating each time he pulls up his knees and release directly into your face some of the most offensive flatulence ever produced by man because it means he will soon feel better.

He’s still just as breathtaking; he’s just added a new dimension to that description.

You have no idea what you are in for, my friend. Right now you’re curled up safely in the only world you’ve ever known. Soon, it’s going to be changing. You’re going on a journey that you won’t understand. You’ll probably be scared and confused, but finally you’ll hear my voice. You’ll know my voice. You’ll be snuggled safely against me and then you’ll notice another familiar voice. It’s deeper and it’s Daddy’s. We’re going to take care of you and love you, protect you and nurture you, and most importantly–we’re going to let you be you.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. I want to be the perfect mom and I know that’s not possible. By accepting that, I’m allowing you to not be the perfect child. You’ll still be better than anyone else’s kid, mind you, but I won’t expect perfection. Daddy and I will expect you to follow your dreams, be honest, be thankful, and simply be yourself. We’ll work hard to show you what that looks like in our own lives.

I’m supposed to try and sleep right now, but I’m so anxious and terrified that I can’t. I keep looking at this tiny bassinet to my right, knowing that soon you will be placed in it. Soon you will come into the world, crying and flailing, and you will be placed there. You will be a boy or a girl, you will be coneheaded or not, you will be a screamer or not.

No matter what you aren’t, you’ll be perfect, you’ll be loved, and you’ll be mine.